


Make a Wolf Out of You

by Adolescently



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Mulan AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adolescently/pseuds/Adolescently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a scale of one to ten, ten being the dumbest an idea can be, Stiles' plan to join the werewolf army to keep his father safe has to be at least a twenty.</p><p>Or, the Sterek Mulan AU nobody asked for or even really wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On a scale of one to ten, ten being the dumbest an idea can be, Stiles' plan to join the werewolf army to keep his father safe has to be at least a twenty.

And okay, it's not like he really has any other choice, not if he wants to keep his father alive, but Stiles is pretty sure this is the dumbest thing he's ever done, including that time he tried to save a cat from a tree using a butterfly net (seriously, he still has the scars). The last time they went to war, it had been his mom who went, with a fierce flash of fangs and a promise that she'd be back soon. She hadn't come back, all that had was a bouquet of flowers and a medal for her bravery and an impersonal written apology, and the werewolf gene was a recessive one, so that had left two very human men by themselves – but the war had been won. Sometime Stiles wished it hadn't been, not if it meant he got to keep his mom, but there was no point thinking like that.

The thing about werewolves was that they were everywhere; one in every family, pretty much, which is why when they came round recruiting, calling for every family to offer up a werewolf to their ranks, it wasn't usually an issue. Except in the case of the Stilinskis.

And okay, the wolves were somewhat considerate of the wholly human families, if you thought that giving one of them the bite so that they could join up was considerate. So his dad had taken the scroll that Peter Hale (who was in charge of recruitment, apparently, ever since the accident that had left him with that hideous scar covering half his face) had handed him and promised to take the bite.

Stiles wasn't going to let that happen. No freakin' way, okay, even if it meant joining up himself, even if it meant taking the bite himself. His father was not going to become a werewolf, was not going to go and fight for their country like his mom, was not going to die like his mom.

Only, well, Stiles didn't want to be a werewolf. Like, really, one hundred percent, did not want to be a werewolf. He was happy as a human, which was probably kind of dumb. And that's what brought him back to the whole 'dumbest idea ever' thing. Becoming a wolf in order to fight wouldn't have been a problem. Deciding to join the army regardless of his very human status was a problem. Deciding to try and _hide_ his very human status was an even bigger problem.

There wasn't another choice, though. His chances of surviving the bite were only fifty percent, he knew that – had studied the statistics after his mom died, done all the freakin' research he could in case this day ever came, the day one of them had to fight for their country again, and it had.

The war had already taken his mom from him. It wouldn't take his dad too.

That was how he had ended up here, slipping into his dad's bedroom in the middle of the night and grabbing the scroll from the nightstand, looking at the empty side of the double bed where his mom used to sleep and feeling a quiet pang of sorrow. 

He's going to leave his dad all alone, and he knows he's selfish, knows it to his very soul but he isn't going to let his dad die. Not like this. "Sorry, dad," he murmurs. Scroll gripped tightly in his hand, clad in the armour his dad had kept just in case, Stiles heads out into the night.

The look Jeep gives him when he arrives at the stables is one she has clearly been working on for a long time. It's a well-perfected 'you're an idiot who's going to get himself killed' look, and Stiles glares at her. "You shut up," he says, jabbing the air in front of her nose with the scroll. He goes to haul himself into the horse's saddle, stumbles and falls into the dust with a clatter of armour he's sure will wake his dad. Heart pounding against his ribcage so hard he's sure it's going to crack his ribs open, he tugs himself up and kicks Jeep into motion with a sinking feeling that he's going to be falling down a lot in the weeks to come.

\---

“You're serious,” Stiles says, as the tiny red dragon in front of him stares. Intently. In the creepiest way possible. “You're serious, aren't you?” he says again, and a tiny hysterical laugh escapes him. “You're telling me that I suck _so much_ that the ancestors sent a _dragon_ after me?”

Deaton shifts awkwardly. “That's... not an inaccurate conclusion.”

“Great.” Stiles flops back against the rock he's sitting in front of and instantly winces, thinking of the bruises he'll have the next day even despite the armour (he bruises like a peach, okay?). Bruises that he wouldn't have if he was a werewolf. “I'm not going back,” he tells the dragon, as a little cricket (apparently sent for good luck) called Morrel hops around him and seriously, who names a goddamn cricket, especially by giving it such a shitty name?

“You'll be discovered,” Deaton warns him. “Werewolves have incredible senses. They'll know you're human.”

“I can't take the bite,” Stiles says. “I don't- I want to be human, I know it's stupid, I don't care, I don't- They always say the bite is a gift, but I don't believe them.”

“You'd be safer,” Deaton says, “as a wolf.”

There's a stubborn silence. Stiles thinks of himself as a wolf, with gleaming fangs and razor sharp claws and golden eyes like his mother's, and wonders if it would be so bad. He shakes his head.

“There are ways,” Deaton says at last, “to cover your scent. Perhaps we could... disguise you, for a while at least. You wouldn't have the strength or the speed of a werewolf, but you'd at least smell like one.” Morrel stops bouncing around long enough to exchange a significant look with Deaton.

Stiles considers it, because there's really not any other option here. He's already left home with his father's conscription in a terrific display of bad planning, without any consideration as to how he's actually going to hide his humanity from the wolf army. He only has two choices – take the bite, or trust Deaton to help him disguise himself. The thought of Peter Hale's fangs scraping across his skin, puncturing it, sapping his humanity and replacing it with bloodlust and a tendency to get super furry when the full moon makes an appearance makes him feel nauseous. “Do it,” he says, and they do.

When they're done, when Deaton is finished pulling crap from thin air and breathing out little puffs of smoke in concentration, when Morrel is finished freakin' hopping around everywhere (does she ever stay still, seriously, _bugs_ , man), Stiles stands up, legs already aching from the day's ride, armour weighing heavily on his shoulders, and mounts Jeep again. The camp his conscription had directed him to isn't far away, maybe another mile, and he'll be there soon. He ignores the tightness in his chest that feels like a panic attack, lurking on the edges of his consciousness, and rides onwards, praying that Deaton's right, that they won't instantly recognise him for what he is – human, stupid, _weak._

\---

“You're not seriously afraid to train a bunch of betas, are you?” Laura leans back against the edge of her desk, her face open in a way it only ever is with Derek, in her tent away from prying eyes and wow, that thought sounds weirdly incestuous. Derek wrinkles his nose.

“Shut up, Laura,” he says, because he's not afraid and he's a beta too, thanks very much. His hand clenches around the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled grip betraying his nerves. He's not- scared, exactly, but he's never done this before. Laura's the alpha, the leader, ever since- well, ever since. They don't talk about it. Derek's never led an army, never had to, and he's certainly never trained the new recruits before.

Laura laughs, but it's not a mean laugh. “You'll do great, Derek,” she says. “Seriously, you're awesome at this.” She scrunches her face up, like it's painful to pay him a compliment, but it's sincere. “I trust you, and you know I need to head north. The Alphas are gaining ground, we need to stop them.”

Derek nods, because he does know that, and maybe he's gonna miss his sister when she leaves ( _maybe_ , okay, shut up, Laura) but he won't try to stop her leaving, not when the Alphas are one of the biggest threats the country has faced in years. Laura's an incredible general, not that he'll ever tell her that, and they need her up there on the front lines.

“You'll be fine,” Laura says firmly, “ _Captain_ Hale.” And he nods, grip tightening even further on his sword, because he can't afford to let her down, won't ever let her down, and he's definitely not scared of what's coming. And maybe he'd rather be on the front lines with Laura, fighting the Alphas with his own claws, but Laura trusts him with this, and trust is something they don't give easily these days. He nods again, and she grins, wide and slightly feral. “I'll see you when you join us up there,” she says.

 _I'll miss you_ , Derek wants to say, and _don't get killed_ and _please don't go_ , but he just nods again like he's a puppet on a string. She seems to understand, though, clapping a hand on his shoulder and exiting the tent for the stables. She'll be gone soon, probably at the mountains by nightfall. Derek feels ill.

Finally, he loosens his grip on his sword, sharp and well-polished because Derek is meticulous with his weapons, and lets out a deep breath. He's going to be fine.

\---

He's going to die.

Oh God, they're gonna know, gonna figure out he's human, gonna kill him, tear him apart for daring to believe he could fool _them_ , the superior species. Stiles has never felt particularly inferior before, knows theoretically that the wolves have weaknesses, but right now he feels about as fragile as the cobwebs that he can never bring himself to sweep away (spiders live in those things, okay, how would you like it if someone swept up your home?). He's so screwed, why did he ever think this would be a good idea?

The camp is already milling with werewolves by the time Stiles arrives, dismounting and leading Jeep through the crowd, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, trying to ignore his rabbit-fast heartbeat. Deaton is hiding down the back of his armour, murmuring advice to him, and it's just the freaky cherry on the extremely weird cake that has been the last day or so and so Stiles just keeps moving. Into someone.

Someone who is apparently made of solid rock, because wolf or not nobody should be that solid when you walk into them. Stiles blinks several times at the man in front of him, unable to help labelling him as a douchebag straight away. The blonde hair, the smug, entitled expression and, okay, well, Stiles can admit that he's got a jaw that must have been chiselled by the gods, but still. “Watch it,” snaps the man, shoving him back. Jeep snorts at him angrily.

Stiles swallows down the sarcastic remark he wants to make, reminding himself that this guy could literally snap him in half. “Uh, sorry.” He half-raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

The man just keeps glaring, finally stalking away, sword gleaming at his hip, armour polished to a fine shine. Stiles takes a moment to mourn just how out of his depth he is. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to loosen the feeling in his chest. There are so many different sights and sounds and between the werewolves snarling and shouting and the clang of swords and the flash of armour and the low hum of conversation beneath it all Stiles just wants it all to slow down, just for a moment, just until he can catch up.

“Hey,” says someone, and Stiles blinks, meeting the gaze of a young man about his own age, with floppy brown hair and kind eyes. “You okay?”

“Uh,” Stiles says, intelligently, and the guy looks concerned. “Y-yeah, yeah. I'm good, man.”

“You look kinda freaked, is all,” says the guy. Then, apropos of nothing, “I'm Scott.”

Stiles blinks, wondering if Scott has sensed weakness and come to tear him limb from limb, but he seems genuinely kind so Stiles just says, “I'm Stiles.”

“Nice to meet you, Stiles,” says Scott, decisively. “Been a werewolf for long?”

“Nah,” says Stiles, pleased with the way he manages to control his voice, “only turned recently.”

“Me too, man.” Scott looks kind of relieved. “Like, six months ago. I mean, I've got some control, y'know? But I heard the Hales are brutal with the training. I'd rather not go all... _y'know?_ ” He curls his hands into claw shapes, waves them at Stiles.

Stiles doesn't know, hadn't realised that werewolves even had control issues. He knows distantly, of course, that newly-turned wolves have some problems, but in his mind he still has this idea that werewolves are strong and fierce and unyielding, never fazed by anything. Having the idea challenged shakes him a little and yet it's almost a relief to realise they aren't as flawless as they present themselves.

“Yeah, I'm kinda freaking out about this whole thing,” he admits, leading Jeep towards the stables. Scott lopes alongside him and Stiles envies how comfortable he seems in his own skin when Stiles feels so jittery he might burst out of his own at any moment.

“Don't worry about it, man,” Scott says. “We're werewolves now, remember? Super strength, speed, hearing, all of that. We're way better protected than we were as humans.”

Stiles swallows, his mouth feeling dry and barren, and nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, and wonders if today will be the day he ruins his father's boots by throwing up on them.

\---

Meeting Captain Derek Hale is an interesting experience. 

Their esteemed leader stalks out of his tent shirtless, for the love of god, with a shiny sword at his hip and an expression that looks like it's been slapped onto his face. Stiles had kind of stopped thinking at the shirtless part, though. Shirtless. With abs of steel. Or rock. Jesus, is this guy even human?

...Wait. Okay, maybe that was a bad choice of words, but Stiles doesn't think he can be blamed for his incoherency considering just how flawless Captain Hale's abs are. Seriously, Stiles can't decide if he wants to lick them or just lie down and die of jealousy.

Hale glares at them with his big furry eyebrows, looking as though he is deeply and personally offended by their very presence. Stiles is very aware of how human he is, is certain that Hale will take one look at him and laugh himself stupid, and not in a 'this is a really funny joke' kind of way, because their captain doesn't seem like the laughing type – more in a 'you're an idiot for thinking you could fool me and now I'm going to rip your throat out with my teeth' sort of way. 

They stand together in some sort of formation of wonky rows, each of them watching Captain Hale with apprehension. Stiles wonders if they can all tell how the surrounding wolves are feeling, if they can judge each other's heartbeats and smell their emotions (or sweat, which, okay, kind of the same thing). He wishes he had some kind of advantage over them, something to make him feel a little more secure, but he just clenches his fists at his side, carving little crescents into his palms, and tries not to vibrate out of his skin.

Captain Hale paces back and forth, still glaring. They shuffle into lines that look a little more put-together. Stiles swallows. Next to him, he can hear Scott's quick breathing, a rush of in-out-in-out, as if he's afraid every breath will be his last.

Finally, Captain Hale says, “So.”

There's an expectant silence. Stiles wonders if Hale has actually planned a speech or anything, or if he's just going to pace all day. “You've all chosen to join us,” says Hale, and Stiles bites back his hysterical laughter because, sure, chosen, “in the fight against the Alphas. I'm sure you all know what that means.”

Another silence. Are they supposed to answer? Captain Hale keeps going, though, so Stiles tries not to worry about it. “It means you'll have to be at your peak, at your very strongest. I'm not going to lie, these Alphas are a real threat, but if you obey my orders and train hard you might survive.”

Stiles' knees feel weak. “A real motivational speaker, this guy,” he mutters to Scott, who looks just as nauseous as he feels. Captain Hale's head whips in his direction then, and Stiles thinks he might actually die right there as the wolf stalks towards them, boots making a stern thudding noise as they hit the dirt where Stiles is sure his corpse will soon be lying.

Hale stops in front of him. His eyes are a bright, electric blue and if Stiles isn't mistaken his eyebrows are a little more furry. “What was that?” he says, dangerously soft, a sardonic twist to his voice.

“Uh,” says Stiles, heart hammering as he tries not to flail about. He hears a snicker from the blond douchebag behind him. “Nothing?” he attempts, and Hale gives a smirk that is anything but amused, giving his head a little jerk that might have been a nod.

“Uh huh,” he says. “And who are you?”

“Uh,” Stiles says again, and Jesus _Christ_ , has he actually forgotten his own name right now, holy _shit_. “Stilinski,” he fumbles out at last. “Stiles Stilinski.”

Hale looks at him flatly. “Stiles Stilinski,” he repeats, like it's the dumbest name he's ever heard in his life (which, point).

“Y-yeah, it's, uh, kind of a nickname,” Stiles says. Huh. He's still talking, apparently, why can't he stop talking, he needs to get himself off of Captain Hale's radar, like, yesterday, and yet he continues, says, “I mean, you could use my real name if you want, uh, sir? But pretty much no one can say it, so.” He scratches at the back of his head. “I'm not entirely sure my-”

He's cut off when Hale presses into his space, grabs the front of his shirt with one fist, hauling him up so he's standing on his tiptoes and glaring at him. “Shut up.”

“Shutting up,” agrees Stiles. Hale glares for another few seconds before shoving him away. Scott shoots out a hand to steady him, almost on instinct, and Stiles prays that this is it, that Captain Hale is done with him now, bored of the stupid human's antics.

“As Stilinski has pointed out to you all,” Hale says, pacing once more as Stiles winces, “I'm not much for speeches. Words won't be much use against the Alphas.”

Stiles swallows hard, trying not to think about how his words are all he has.

“Settle your horses, sort your tents out,” Hale orders, and he's already walking away. “Training starts in an hour.” Then he's gone, back into his tent. The group seems to let out a collective sigh of relief before dispersing, and soon the camp is milling with wolves once more, the murmur of conversation returning.

“Holy shit, dude!” Scott is in front of him, brown eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”

Stiles huffs out an incredulous laugh. “You say that like I meant to end up on Captain Hale's _murder radar._ ”

Scott shakes his head. “I thought he was actually going to kill you. Man, training's gonna be rough,” he complains, and Stiles feels his stomach drop to his feet. If Scott – a werewolf, with the whole super strength, speed and senses deal – is dreading training, Stiles might as well quit now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I even doing right now we just don't know
> 
> I had to get this out of my head so idk have this it'll be Sterek eventually
> 
> Hopefully I'll update soon (if anyone is even reading this whoops)
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr I'm megmaster


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, Stiles groans.

“No,” he says to the dirt, when Scott nudges his prone form with a toe. “Nope. Absolutely not. I'm done, leave me here to die.”

“Come on, man,” says Scott, and he sounds kind of worried, which prompts Stiles to at least lift his head from the ground he's lying on. “You gotta get up.”

Stiles groans again, feeling his muscles scream in protest at the very thought of it. “Nope.”

“If Captain Hale sees us-”

“Screw him,” says Stiles, with feeling. Captain Hale, he has learned, is a douchebag of the highest order.

“Stiles, you need to get up,” Scott says, more urgently this time, and Stiles groans once more just for balance.

“Screw you, too.” But he sits up, almost certain he can hear his bones creaking as he does, and then pushes himself to his feet.

And finds himself face to face with Captain Hale.

"Um," he says, eloquently.

"Stilinski," snarls Hale. "What the hell are you doing?

Stiles winces. "Resting?" he tries, because he's a firm believer in giving even the shittiest of escapes a shot.

"Resting," Captain Hale repeats, with a kind of incredulous snort. "You gonna be _resting_ when the Alphas show up, huh? Or are you gonna fight?"

Next to Stiles, Scott shifts uncomfortably.

"Well," Stiles starts to say, and Hale's already fearsome glare intensifies. He wilts.

"You better shape up, Stilinski," says Hale. "At the rate you're going, you'll be dead by the end of the week." And with that, he stalks back to the front of the group, where blond douchebag, Jackson Whittemore is smugly jogging beside a hot blonde girl who looks almost as terrifying as Captain Hale.

Stiles sags against Scott. This entire week has been a disaster from start to finish.

First, there had been the arrow. Fired straight into the centre of a tree trunk by Captain Hale, where it wobbled with the impact and then stayed firmly planted to the wood. Captain Hale had grabbed Jackson Whittemore by the collar, pushed him towards the tree and said, "Get the arrow." (Captain Hale was a big fan of brevity, clearly).

Glancing back at them, confused, clearly wondering if it was some kind of joke, Jackson had stalked towards the tree – and bounced off it. Or, more specifically, he had bounced off of the air surrounding the tree.

There had been a confused pause.

Jackson had tried again, and yet again had walked straight into some kind of invisible barrier.

Captain Hale had snorted, grabbed the next recruit – a guy with no hair and a serious face that Stiles later learned was named Boyd – and pushed him towards the tree. With an intense sort of glare, Boyd had moved towards the tree, slow and predatory.

He too had been stopped by the forcefield.

"Dude," Stiles had whispered to Scott. "What the hell?"

Scott had shrugged, frowning.

"Mountain ash," whispered a disembodied voice, and Stiles flailed a little. Subtly. Sort of. "Of course."

Deaton. Right. The dragon had been hiding in his armour all day, and seriously, it was edging past uncomfortable and into weird and kind of worrying. "What's mountain ash?" he hissed. Scott, busy staring as a boy with curly hair crashed into the barrier after taking a running leap, didn't seem to notice.

"It's ash," Deaton said, and Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he was worried he might strain something because, come on, was that the best Deaton could do? "It's used as a barrier," the dragon continued, "to prevent werewolves from entering. Derek must have had a human set it up for him, maybe a witch. There's a circle around that tree, see it?"

Stiles did see it, a thick circle of black dust that surrounded the tree, but as he blinked again it was gone. "It's been concealed," murmured Deaton. "They must have been strong."

"Stilinski!" barked Hale at that moment, and Stiles jumped again, arms flapping like some kind of demented pigeon. There were a few sniggers that he had magnanimously ignored.

"You have to pretend," Deaton said, as if Stiles was some kind of dumbass (and okay, he signed himself up for this, but still, he's not completely braindead), and Stiles marched up to the tree as if he was certain he'd reach it.

When he reached the point where he'd seen the circle of ash, he executed a particularly impressive backwards leap and stumbled into Scott. "What the hell?" he had demanded loudly, for emphasis.

Captain Hale had just snorted. "That arrow," he declared to the disgruntled group of wolves (and humans, yes, okay, fine), "will require strength, discipline and intelligence to retrieve." There was a pause. Stiles thought perhaps they were being insulted. Almost definitely, in fact, but he didn't take offence. He could easily get that arrow, okay?

"I guess we've got a long way to go," Hale had said, and training had begun.

***

“You're not _that_ terrible,” says Scott, dubiously.

“Dude, I'm gonna die here,” Stiles says, and there's a good chance he's not merely being melodramatic because, hello, one hundred and forty seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bone here, he's almost definitely going to get crushed before they ever reach the Alphas.

“You can't leave me here alone!” Scott looks more alarmed at that prospect than by the idea of Stiles being dead, which, okay, they've only known each other a week or so, but still. Stiles likes to think he should take priority, here.

"Gee, Scott, I'm so sorry that my dying will inconvenience you," he says, with a dose of sarcasm that's heavy even for him. His muscles twinge in protest with every step he takes. Scott is still jogging beside him at the back of the group, although Stiles suspects Scott is with him due to some weird sense of loyalty rather than any actual incompetence of his own. Go Scott, okay? This dude is awesome.

Scott snorts. "It's not that, okay?" he says, hardly even out of breath (Stiles considers retracting his earlier statement; anyone who can run like this and hold a conversation at the same time is kind of an asshole). "Everyone else here is totally crazy. You're, like, the only kinda normal person here."

Stiles pretends to consider that as he gasps for air.

"Look, all I'm saying is don't give up so soon, okay? It'll get better."

"Actually, it'll probably only get worse," whispers Deaton, probably in retaliation for all the sweat Stiles has been dripping on him (hey, no one asked him to hide down his shirt, okay?).

Scott frowns. "What was that?"

Stiles grits his teeth. Stupid Deaton and his stupid inability to keep the talking for when they're alone. "Nothing," he pants, and pushes himself a tiny bit further, already aching legs taking him just that little bit faster so that the stench of sweat will really ruin Deaton's day. "Let's just go, okay?" 

Scott grins, and they continue running in silence.

The woods they're running through really don't make this whole thing any easier. Stiles has lost count of how many tree roots he's tripped over, and if Scott ever tells anyone about the squirrel incident Stiles has sworn to end him. "Dude," he gasps, when the sounds of pounding feet and rustling leaves becomes too quiet. "What's with the woods, huh? Couldn't we-" he pauses to haul in a breath "-run someplace normal?"

"Like where?" Scott asks, giving him a strange look.

"I dunno, a road?"

"You see any roads round here, Stilinski?" snaps Captain Hale, from the front of the group. His freaking abs are gleaming with sweat, which should not be as attractive as it is. Scott and Stiles exchange pained looks, although undoubtedly for different reasons.

"No, sir," calls Stiles, trying to keep the insolence from his voice as best he can – which means he's pretty damn insolent about it, but Captain Hale just glares and keeps running, although Stiles is sure he picks the pace up just a little. Asshole. Attractive, but a total dick, and wow, Stiles really needs to stop thinking about dicks. He gasps, ignoring the fire in his lungs and the explosive pain in his side, and tries not to collapse on the ground for the second time that day.

Back at the camp, finally, Captain Hale gives them a break to shove some food down their necks. Stiles longs for the mountain of curly fries he'd have wolfed (ha, wolfed, isn't that a fucking laugh) down back home, but apparently fries aren't the healthiest food for soldiers. Or anyone, really. Go figure. Stiles crams a mouthful of only slightly stale bread into his mouth and tries not to move as Deaton wriggles around under his shirt. 

That's never not going to be weird, but Stiles lets it go. Deaton's been helping him, this past week. They'd done scent training the other day; Hale had blindfolded them all and tested their ability to discern different scents. It was only thanks to Deaton, whispering the answers in his ear, that he hadn't completed flunked that. And then there's the whole pretending to be a werewolf thing – thanks to the dragon (and, by extension, that freaky cricket) and his magic, Stiles' very human scent has remained undetected.

Sometimes he wonders, though. It's the looks he's been getting from Captain Hale that give him pause, make him stop to consider whether it's calculation in those unfairly gorgeous eyes (not that he's been looking, who even does that?) or just burning hatred. It's probably – okay, almost definitely – burning hatred. Because Stiles is without a doubt the worst werewolf-but-not-a-werewolf soldier this army has ever seen, and Stiles knows for a fact that this is Captain Hale's first time training new recruits. Stiles is probably making him look seriously, seriously bad, but he's kind of too preoccupied with his own inevitable doom to consider Hale's feelings.

"I heard we're doing sparring after lunch," announces Scott, out of nowhere and somewhat indistinctly around a mouthful of food.

Stiles blinks, pulled from his increasingly morbid thoughts. The words take a second to register. "Sparring?" he demands, unable to keep the hint of panic from his voice. "What d'you mean, sparring?"

"Uh," says Scott, looking at him blankly. " _Sparring_ , y'know?" The italics in his voice don't help, because Stiles already knows what sparring is, okay, that's why he's totally freaking out.

"Oh my God," he says, and wonders if the crappy knife that couldn't even cut his bread open will be a suitable method of suicide. "Oh my God, I'm so dead."

"Come on, dude, it won't be that bad," Scott says to his sandwich (and okay, it's edible, but no one should be looking at a slightly squashed sandwich with that amount of devotion).

"Won't it?" demands Stiles, no longer hungry. Okay, that's a lie. He's a little less hungry, though. "You saw the jogging, man. Holy shit, dude, promise you won't kill me."

Scott laughs as though it isn't a legitimate concern. "Stiles, no one's gonna kill you."

"Captain Hale might," says Stiles, dropping his increasingly limp sandwich onto the plate. "Jackson might. And that blonde chick definitely has a hint of the crazy, y'know? In fact, I think you're the only person here who isn't likely to kill me."

Scott gives him a tolerant smile. "It'll be fine, man."

***

'Fine' is not the word Stiles would have used, exactly.

Unless fine is the word used to describe falling to the ground seven consecutive times, unless fine is the word used to describe a body black and blue with bruises (although mercifully blood-free, because cuts that don't heal are harder to explain away), unless fine is the word used to describe the expression on Captain Hale's face when he stalks over to Stiles as he's picking himself up off the floor – then no, 'fine' is not the word Stiles would have used.

"What the hell are you doing, Stilinski?"

Stiles takes a moment to think about that one. What is he doing, exactly? Because from his point of view, what he's doing is failing at everything he came here to achieve, what he's doing is plunging headfirst into danger and doing the worst job ever at protecting himself from it.

"Uh," he says instead. "Sparring."

"That," bites out Hale, "Was not sparring. That was you- you getting obliterated, Stilinski!"

Ouch. That one kinda stings. Stiles huffs out a tiny half-laugh and pretends that the entire group hasn't stopped to stare at them. "That's a little harsh, don'tcha think-"

"Harsh? Oh, really? You wanna talk about harsh, Stilinski? Try getting torn apart by the Alphas. Try being utterly defenceless against them. Try losing the war."

There's a silence. Stiles swallows, and then Captain Hale raises his hands, coiled into loose fists. "Come on," he says.

Stiles stares at him, dumbfounded. "Uh, what?"

"Come on," repeats Hale. "We're gonna spar. You think I'm being too harsh? Show me what you got."

Holy _Jesus_. He's so dead. He's so freaking dead. He's so dead he's probably looped back around again and been reborn into this exact same unfortunate moment in time.

Unable to see any other option – other than shouting 'hey, surprise, weak and breakable human here, try not to kill me!' - Stiles mimics Captain Hale's stance. His mouth feels dry, and his heart is beating way too fast. Everybody here can tell how terrified he is, he's sure of that, and it makes him feel so, so vulnerable, like somebody's ripped his chest open to bear his soul to the world.

And then Hale lunges, and the fight begins.

And the fight ends.

Stiles likes to think he held his own there for, oh, about five seconds. Then Hale had caught his arm, twisted it up behind his back until all Stiles could think was _don't break it, holy shit, please don't break it,_ and tackled him to the ground.

Terrifying and traumatic as the whole experience is, Stiles is rather enjoying his close proximity with Captain Hale's incredible abs. He takes a moment to inhale his not entirely unpleasant scent and then opens eyes that he doesn't remember shutting.

Captain Hale is a thing of magnificence, okay? Physically, that is. Mentally and emotionally, he's kind of a stunted dick, but Stiles isn't ashamed to admit that he's pretty damn easy on the eyes. The silence holds for a few seconds. Trees rustle on the branches above them.

The moment is shattered when Hale says, "Now you're dead. Nice work, Stilinski." He pushes himself to his feet, lithe and graceful like a swan on steroids (okay, Stiles isn't great with the similes, whatever – he's kinda distracted).

Stiles blinks up at him. "Thanks," he says at last, breathless and sarcastic. Hale glares at him, but extends an arm to help Stiles up, which is somewhat surprising.

"You better learn fast," he says as he hauls Stiles to his feet, and then, as if that wasn't ominous enough in itself, "Or else."

The tension in the air disperses as he strides away. Stiles feels as if he's missing something important, but he's too busy patching up his bruised pride and, yeah, his actual bruised body to give a shit right now.

***

His recruits suck.

Okay, maybe that's not strictly true. Maybe some of his recruits are okay. There's Jackson, although the guy is kind of a douche and Derek avoids him if he can, and there's that blonde girl, Erica Reyes, and she's strong and smart if a little power crazy. There's Boyd, who is quiet but has a hell of a lot of strength and is good at taking orders.

In fact, a lot of his soldiers are doing okay. Not great, and certainly not ready to fight a war, but they're doing okay.

It's Stilinski that bothers him.

The kid's been bothering him since the very first day, in fact, and hasn't stopped once. At first, it had been a question of obedience. Stilinski didn't seem like the type to mindlessly follow orders (and in the privacy of his own mind, Derek could respect that – but he needed his soldiers to be loyal), but he had yet to demonstrate just how truly incompetent he was.

He had failed to cross the mountain ash, but so had everybody else – it would take smarts to pass that barrier, and Derek wasn't sure any of them would manage it before it was time to join the fight – but then had come the rest of training. 

Stilinski sucks, plain and simple. He can't keep pace with the rest of them whilst running, he can't spar to save his damn life – and that's the point of the freaking exercise – and the weight lifting exercises were a disaster best left unmentioned. He had done okay at scent training, Derek can admit, but that doesn't make up for how utterly appalling he is at every single other thing. Derek has literally never met somebody so shitty at the most basic training – Stiles is the worst wolf ever.

And he smells funny.

Immature and insulting as that might seem, it's the truth. Stiles has a scent that Derek just can't place. There's the regular sort of smells that cling to all of his soldiers, the aromas of their own homes, but Stiles has something else, something different layered on top. It pisses him off, trying to figure out what it is, and he'd almost lost control earlier after taking Stiles down, the scent had been so pungent.

Still, it's not like he can start complaining about Stilinski's scent, so he settles for complaining about everything else instead.

He sits outside his tent, sharpening his sword. He rarely uses it – teeth and claws are more brutal, more efficient – but he keeps it in top condition anyway. It's an implicit threat, constantly hanging from his belt. Wolves mill around the campsite – some of them cooking their own food (and yeah, okay, the army food sucks, Derek admits), some of them training (and by some, he means Jackson. The guy's kind of obsessive), some of them just talking. Derek tunes out the conversations and wonders if Laura's okay.

They'll be heading out to join her in a month. Derek doesn't think they'll be ready, but he has to try – has to push his recruits even further, has to make them the best they can be so that Laura won't regret making him a captain, so that he won't see the disappointment in her eyes. He doesn't ever want to see that again, not after – well, after everything. He clenches his jaw and focuses on the gleam of his sword.

He won't fail. He'll make them into wolves, into proper werewolves. Every last one of them.

Even Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of the kudos and lovely comments uwu
> 
> i hope this update isn't a disappointment to you all
> 
> come hang out with me on tumblr i'm megmaster it's a good time or something


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up in his tent that night soaked in sweat, with a persistent hard-on, and okay, that's fine, this is nothing new, he can definitely handle this.

So he handles it, and he tries not to think about the dream he'd been having, tries not to wonder if Captain Hale's calloused hands really would feel that good on his dick, tries not to think about biting down on Hale's lips, tries really really really hard not to think about licking his abs or how his stubble would feel against his skin, and he almost succeeds as well.

Stiles really hopes Deaton hasn't slept in this tent tonight, because otherwise this whole thing is about to get really awkward.

***

The next day is about as shitty as always, made even worse by the niggling thought that maybe werewolves can smell arousal, and does Scott know how many times he's jerked off since coming here, because that would be kinda awkward, and does Captain Hale know how freakin' attractive Stiles finds him? Jesus fuck, Stiles thinks, and grits his teeth, struggling to lift the weights they're practising with.

His muscles scream in protest, days of overworking them taking its toll, and Stiles offers up a silent prayer to anyone listening to just let him lift the damn thing, please, he deserves a freakin' break, he's really not that shit at everything. Come on. Come on, come on, come on, and his arms are gonna fall off, holy shit, but the weight is off the ground. Now he just has to get it over his head. A bead of sweat rolls down his back.

There's a pretty high chance that Captain Hale is watching him, actually, and he's kind of determined to not fail at this, because then there's an even higher chance that Hale will decide he is one hundred percent _done_ with Stiles' shit, and then where will he be? Certainly not here.

Arms trembling, he finally lifts the weight over his head, and he's pretty sure he's just strained about ten _billion_ muscles, so he puts it down again, quickly, because he doesn't want to drop the freaking thing on his feet.

Unfortunately, yeah, it turns out Hale has been watching him. Like, with the squinty eyes and the frowny eyebrows and the mouth turned down into a scowl and okay, what did Stiles ever do to deserve this? He's a good guy. He brushes his teeth twice a day and he makes sure his dad eats his salad and he even helped an old lady cross the road one time (okay, so she wasn't actually trying to, but that's another story). He's pretty sure nothing he's done in his life has warranted death by Derek Hale.

Despite the way he prays for Hale to turn away, to ignore another one of his vaguely disappointing attempts at wolfiness, Captain Hale stalks towards him, eyes narrow and brows still furrowed in annoyance.

“Uh, hey, Captain,” says Stiles. He attempts a salute in the hope that his awesome military behaviour might get him off the hook.

Hale looks unimpressed. “What,” he says. There's no question mark in his voice. Never a good sign.

“Um,” Stiles says, fumbling for words. “What?”

“What are you doing,” says Hale, and this time it sounds like restrained frustration, bubbling just underneath the surface of his skin, and Stiles understands with sudden clarity that he's on wafer-thin ice right now.

Sadly, he was never any good at ice-skating, and for once in his life he can't even attempt to find words.

Hale gives a heavy sigh, runs a hand through his hair. Stiles feels uneasy, has never seen their captain look so defeated. “That's it,” he says, and it's like Stiles has been soaked with ice-cold water.  
“What d'you mean, that's it?” he demands, lamely.

“I _mean_ ,” snarls Hale, eyes flashing blue, “that's it. You're done.”

“Right,” says Stiles, feeling the eyes of everyone on him, aware that they have gathered quite an audience. “I'll just go back to-”

“Permanently.”

There's silence.

“Wait, what?”

“You're the worst wolf I've ever seen, Stilinski!” shouts Hale, incredulous. “What the hell did you expect, huh? If I take you with us you're gonna die, probably get the rest of us killed too!”

Stiles swallows, feels a heavy lead weight settle in the pit of his stomach.

“I wouldn't- I wouldn't do that.”

Hale sighs again. When he speaks again his voice is softer, but still harsh, still stern. “Maybe not deliberately,” he concedes. “But you're a liability, Stilinski. You should just- go home. You have the rest of the day to get packed up and go.” Then, shoulders tense, he turns on his heel and prowls off across the field, throwing a parting shot of, “Get back to work!” to the rest of the recruits.

Stiles stands still for a few moments, letting it sink in. He's all out of options now. He tried being a wolf, tried to protect his dad, and he's failed. Now all that's left is to go home and face the music. As the sounds of training filter back into the air, he forces his wooden muscles to move him away, back towards his tent. He feels almost empty.

“Stiles!”

He doesn't even register the voice at first, just forces himself to put one foot in front of the other, keep moving so he doesn't have to think. Then he hears it again - “STILES!” - and Scott comes skidding to a halt at his side.

Stiles slows, turns to look at Scott. They're silent, then Scott speaks.

“Dude.”

And Stiles huffs out a weak laugh. “Dude,” he says. There's more silence, and then Stiles decides that he can't take Scott's freakin' puppy-dog eyes and blurts out, “C'mon, you had to know this was coming. I'm literally the worst recruit here. Like, even worse than Greenburg.”

“You're not,” says Scott, too quickly, and Stiles laughs again.

“Thanks, buddy.” He claps Scott on the shoulder and moves to leave.

“What, so that's it?” Scott demands. “You're just gonna go?”

“Dude, when Hale tells you to do something, you do it. I don't really feel like having my _throat_ torn out, thanks.” 

“He wouldn't do that,” says Scott, but he sounds doubtful. They start walking back towards Stiles' tent in companionable silence, and Stiles thinks that of everything, above Captain Hale's magnificent abs and Isaac's shocked face that one time he fell in the river during sprint training, he's going to miss Scott the most.

As they head towards the tents, they pass by the tree they had trained at on the first day – although perhaps training is too kind a word. Ran into repeatedly, maybe. Stiles glances at it as they go past. The arrow is still jammed firmly into the tree trunk and the line of mountain ash is still completely intact. So many times, Stiles had considered breaking it, just because he could, just to make himself look something other than utterly useless – but he couldn't. They'd ask him how he'd done it, and he wouldn't be able to answer, and they'd see right through him. He couldn't risk it.

Now, though, he pauses to consider it. He still can't simply break the line – he'd reveal his secret to Scott and still have no idea how to explain what he'd done – but he has to do something. He has to think like a wolf, except, y'know, without the whole primal rage and bloodlust thing. How can he break the line without touching it?

The others have tried, over the past month or so, to cross the ring of mountain ash and retrieve the arrow. Jackson has been seen there almost every day, trying to leap over the line only to crash into the invisible barrier. He's the only one of them still determined enough – or pigheaded enough – to even bother trying.

But now Stiles pauses to consider. They already know that werewolves can't touch the line, can't cross it. Isaac once tried to poke it with a stick and, well, that didn't end well. So what else is there? Stiles frowns.

Scott has stopped, raising his eyebrows at Stiles. “You coming?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Stiles blinks, inspiration hitting him squarely in the face (like pretty much everything else has taken to doing). “I got an idea.” He runs off towards the food tent – food being an increasingly tenuous description as the days drag on and supplies run low – and pauses outside, where a leaky hose has been wound around itself several times. There's a puddle of water beneath one end, soaking into the grass as a steady drip drip drip passes from the hose. Stiles has no clue where the water comes from and he's been too tired to even think about finding out lately, but now it's working in his favour. He hopes.

Scott appears at his shoulder as Stiles starts to unwind the hose, hands slick with water. “What are you doing?”

Stiles tugs at the hose, feet slipping on the damp grass and sending him stumbling into Scott. “Just watch,” he says, adding, “Man, I hope this works,” under his breath because come on, this is gonna be totally embarrassing if nothing happens. Dragging the hose behind him, Stiles sets off back towards the tree, with Scott trailing after him like a baffled puppy.

He stops about two feet from the trail of mountain ash. There's a silence that Stiles likes to think is poignant and filled with trepidation and other suitably pretentious words. Scott shifts uncomfortably and then blurts, “So what are you actually doing?”

The moment ruined, Stiles huffs out an irritated sigh and twists the top of the hose into the on position. There's a worrying gurgling sound before water comes rushing from the hose. It's tinted a vague brown colour and Stiles takes the time to grimace – he's been drinking this stuff – before he directs the stream of water at the ash because okay, it might be magic fairy dust but it's still just that, dust. And water totally defeats dust, okay, any self-respecting five year old knows that.

Sure enough, the water mixes with the ash and at first Stiles thinks it might form some weird kind of gunk and oh God, what if it turns sentient, Stiles doesn't want to be eaten by a mountain ash monster, but then the dust is washed away and Scott is watching with his jaw dropped.

Stiles really, really hopes that this is an idea that would work for wolves as well. He likes to think Deaton would have stopped him if it wasn't, but the dragon hasn't been the most reliable of sources so far. Still, he's come this far, so Stiles sluices the remaining dust away, steps over the gap he's created and plucks the arrow from the tree.

Well.

Not so much plucks, really. He grabs it and pulls, lightly at first and then harder as he realises it's actually stuck. “Huh, that's really on there,” he says, absolutely definitely not gasping with the effort.

Scott's still watching. “Seriously?”

“Shut up,” Stiles grits out, as the arrow finally flies loose. His momentum sends him stumbling backwards as he lets out a victory whoop. “I'm awesome,” he tells Scott, and waits for the applause.

There's silence, then, “You really should have done this with a bigger audience.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says again. He looks down at the arrow in his hand and wonders if its really laughing at him or if it's just his imagination. What's he supposed to do now, just hand Scott the arrow and leave? Surely just showing Derek he can cross a stupid line of mountain ash isn't gonna do anything. He moves to go just as Scott yells in the direction of the training grounds.

“HEY!”

Nobody replies, although Stiles thinks Isaac is probably tripping over himself to come and see what Scott needs (there's almost certainly something going on there, okay, even if Stiles happens to know that Scott has a crush on the emperor's daughter, who, by the way, he's never actually met, but he digresses). Then, Scott yells again. “STILES GOT THE ARROW!”

More silence. Too much silence. There's a definite hint of disbelief hanging in the air, now.

No sooner have the words escaped Scott's mouth, though, than Isaac appears, his curly hair tousled, his shirtless abs covered in sweat (and _seriously_ , the guns on these guys - a man's ego can only take so much). His gaze flickers briefly over the scene, taking in Scott, the hose – still leaking water onto the grass – and Stiles, standing frozen like a rabbit in the headlights with the arrow clutched tightly in his hand. Isaac's expression hovers somewhere between awe and annoyance when he breathes out, “No way.”

“Uh,” says Stiles, eloquently. “Yes way.”

“Ah, for fuck's sake,” says Greenburg, appearing at Isaac's shoulder (Isaac edges away). He's followed by Jackson and Erica and Boyd, all wearing similarly annoyed expressions and all looking annoyingly attractive despite the amount of weight they had been slinging around that morning. Stiles sometimes thinks that the bite just makes everyone wildly attractive, but he's seen Greenburg.

“Seriously?” Jackson demands, and Stiles glares at him, although he wilts somewhat under the sudden, stern gaze of Captain Hale.

They all turn to look at him, slowly. He's doing his looming thing, with the furrowed eyebrows and the intimidating shadow (Stiles has considered carrying around a spotlight to imitate this effect, but he doesn't think he could carry it off anyway), and Stiles doesn't know what he's supposed to do now, so he puffs up his chest and follows an old time honoured phrase – _fake it till you make it_.

“That's right,” he says, and holds the arrow up for inspection. “I got your stupid arrow, Hale. Someone had to get things going around here.” He can practically feel Scott's sharp intake of breath at that, and wonders if he's crossed a line. He never does seem to notice them until he's already leapt merrily over them.

Hale doesn't speak, but he doesn't seem any angrier than usual – he's at his regular level of _lay a finger on me and I'll destroy you_ , rather than the _I eat maggots like you for breakfast_ level of rage that Stiles has seen only once. Then, as the rest of them wait with baited breath (or rather, as Stiles waits with baited breath and half of the group eagerly await his imminent destruction), Captain Hale says, “Not bad, Stilinski.”

“Not bad?” Stiles demands, and hears Deaton give a quiet sigh of defeat. It's only then that he realises just how well everything had been going. “Come on, I figured out how to get over that freakin' barrier that's been driving everyone crazy all month – gimme a little credit!”

Even now, though, Hale only appears marginally more irritated. “So you figured it out,” he says. “So what? Anyone here could have figured out how to cross that line.”

“Yeah, except that anyone here didn't,” Stiles points out, because he's almost certainly still headed for home so he might as well have a nice argument before he goes.

Hale smirks. “He's got a point there,” he says to the others. “Take notes. Stilinski might be terrible at everything else-” Stiles makes an indignant noise at that “-but at least he's got some brains.”

Stiles considers pushing his luck and demanding to know what exactly Hale's idea of a lot of brains is, but instead he settles for picking up the bow that's still resting against the tree from when Derek shot the arrow and nocking the arrow. There's a pause in which Stiles hopes, prays, begs to all of the deities he knows that this will work, and then he fires the arrow straight towards the range of targets some hundred metres away.

Through some miracle, the arrow hits the centre of one of the targets and stays there. He glances over his shoulder to see Scott grinning and restrains himself from whooping and cheering for himself even though he's pretty sure that anything he does after this is going to be a major freaking disappointment.

“Dude,” says Scott, practically bouncing. Stiles lets a grin break out across his face because Lady Luck is definitely on his side today, for possibly the first time in his entire life, and he knows now that even if Hale still sends him home he's done everything he can to prevent it, to stay here and protect his dad. Despite the situation, despite Jackson's glare and Isaac's irritation and Boyd's silent but obvious disbelief, Stiles feels good, a tiny bubble of happiness swelling in his chest.

“Alright, get out of here, all of you,” says Captain Hale, not taking his eyes from Stiles. Just like that, the bubble pops, and Stiles knows he's out. Nobody moves. Stiles hears a bird singing somewhere and thinks how great it would be to be a bird right now. It's a strange thing to think. “Go!” snaps Hale, and it's like time has released its hold on the moment as everyone moves at once, the group dissolving just like that. Stiles starts to trudge off towards his tent when a hand on his shoulder stops him. It's not forceful, like he's come to expect from Hale, but it's not exactly gentle either. Just restraining.

“Not you, Stilinski.”

Scott gives him a sympathetic glance as he sidles past, and Stiles thinks that he should feel more worried about this whole thing than he does. Maybe he's already slipped past blind panic and has reached sweet, sweet apathy.

Captain Hale waits until everyone has left before finally saying, “I'll give you one more chance.”

Stiles blinks. “Wait, what?” He doesn't seem to have been murdered yet. Distantly, he's aware that he should have been.

“One more chance,” Hale says. “To prove yourself worthy of fighting in this war.”

He doesn't want to be worthy, is the thing. He doesn't want to fight in this war, doesn't want glory and honour and all that good stuff. All that he really wants is to go home and hug his dad, tell him it's okay like his mom used to and stay safe until the whole thing blows over, as well as any war can blow over.

That's not an option, though. Stiles hasn't had many options lately, and so he gives a tight nod. “Understood,” he says. “Sir.”

The silence that follows is heavy, Captain Hale's calloused hand still resting on Stiles' shoulder. It's a comfortable sort of weight that Stiles could get used to, but he doesn't get much of a chance because, as if Captain Hale had read his mind, the hand is instantly lifted. Hale glances away and then back, as if he wants to say something. He doesn't, though, and finally he turns and walks back towards the training grounds.

Stiles stands numbly, watching him go, until Deaton starts to squirm. Then he props the bow back up against the tree and follows Captain Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit i'm sorry i didn't mean to leave it so long  
> but i guess nobody ever does
> 
> anyway here's chapter 3!! hopefully you enjoyed it and if you didn't i'm sorry  
> but there's lots of lovely sterek out there so i'm sure you'll find some that suits you
> 
> also i'm sorry i haven't replied to any of your lovely comments yet but i fully intend to and i appreciate every one of them so thanks for that and please don't be confused when i answer your two month old comment
> 
> (psst come hang out with me on tumblr i'm megmaster it's a good time)


	4. Chapter 4

The next week goes surprisingly well, because despite his recent successes regarding Captain Hale and mountain ash, Stiles hadn't exactly been expecting a total turnabout. He had been expecting more embarrassing failure, more gasping for breath on their marathon sprints, more growls from Captain Hale and, eventually, the realisation that keeping Stiles around had been a mistake.

He hadn't been prepared for this - 'this' being him winning a sparring match for the first time (granted, it was against Greenburg, but still), successfully lifting his first set of weights and managing to complete one of the shorter sprint circuits without passing out. He suspects witchcraft, personally, but Deaton ignores any and all attempts to pry answers out of him. The other recruits seem to have been bolstered by his success with the mountain ash, too, because they're getting - not better, per se, considering how scary-good they were before, but more co-ordinated. Fluid. Like a pack, almost. A pack that Stiles isn't entirely sure he fits into, but a pack nonetheless.

Which is why, when Deaton says, "I think we're ready to move on," Stiles isn't terribly happy.

Well.

That might have been an understatement.

In actuality, Stiles is very unhappy indeed, and makes it known by flailing around like a furious octopus and demanding to know if Deaton has lost all of his marbles or just most of them. Deaton smiles that weird, placid lizard smile of his and tells Stiles that it's time for him to prove his worth, that his time has come.

"Are you senile?" Stiles asks him, propped up against a tree trunk in a field that is, for once, quiet. "Seriously, how old are you? Are you, like, a dragon senior citizen? Do you need a vet?"

“The Alphas will not wait forever,” says Deaton. “They are a dangerous enemy.”

“Yeah, no _shit_.” Stiles flops down onto his bedroll, the familiar ache of his bruised muscles making him wince. “But I dunno if you've noticed, I'm still not exactly werewolf material, y'know?”

“You're human,” Deaton agrees with a trace of amusement. Stiles glares. “You may not improve much further.”

“Wow, thanks.” The comment stings, even now. Stiles knows he's nothing special; he's maybe not the worst of them all (thanks, Greenburg) but he's almost certainly the second worst. Captain Hale has ceased to give him exasperated glances after everything he does and has moved on to a careful indifference – although occasionally Stiles catches Hale staring at him with an unreadable expression. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't like it. Knowledge is his thing. Not knowing feels like missing a limb, or maybe just a couple of toes because he doesn't know things a lot more often than he'd like and he can't go around without any limbs, now, can he.

Deaton is eyeing him in a way that says he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking, and also that he's an idiot. Stiles is so done with getting these looks from a lizard. It's insulting.

“What do you want me to do, anyway? We're not going anywhere 'til our esteemed leader says so.”

Deaton shrugs. Apparently that's a thing lizards can do. “Perhaps you ought to talk to him.”

Caught off guard, Stiles chokes out a laugh. “Fuck,” he gasps, when he has enough air again. “You want me to _talk_ to Captain Hale? Have you _met_ the guy?”

“Perhaps you will be able to persuade him.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his hair – it's getting long now, no longer the buzz cut he wore when he fled in the night, and would his dad even recognise him now? Another sigh escapes him, and he nods, never one to shy away from a challenge. “I can at least ask, I guess. There's gotta be a reason we haven't left yet.” Because while Stiles and Greenburg are indisputably bringing up the rear of the group, the rest of them – Erica, Jackson, Isaac, Scott, Boyd, all of them – are kicking ass. Deaton's right. It's time to move on.

Besides, Captain Hale doesn't hate him so much, these days. Sometimes he even looks at Stiles with something like approval. That has to be worth something.

***

He finds Hale leaning against the post outside his tent, the grey light of dusk casting sharp shadows across his face. Shoulders tense and brows furrowed, Hale looks every inch the fighter he is. Stiles wonders at the wisdom of interrupting what is clearly some pretty deep brooding – and given what happened to the Hales, who can blame the guy – but he approaches anyway.

Hale looks up as Stiles nears. “Stilinski,” he acknowledges, which is something.

Stiles nods at him, the action too quick, too jerky to be entirely casual. “Captain,” he says with a salute that's only a little mocking.

The corner of Hale's mouth twitches into a ghost of a smirk. Then he glances around, green eyes flickering across the rest of the camp. The other recruits are quiet, for once. Hidden in their own tents, or writing letters home – Stiles hasn't, not once, doesn't think he could bear it. No one is looking at them when Hale says, “Something you need, Stilinski?”

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles fights back any number of wise-ass remarks he could make here, and instead says, “I wanted to, uh, ask you something.”

Captain Hale raises an eyebrow at that. He looks – well, Stiles doesn't know what to call the look on his face. It's more than simple curiosity, at least. “Yeah?”

Stiles steels himself, because he doesn't know Hale well enough to know what his reaction will be to Stiles' questioning his authority. “Are we ever actually gonna leave here?”

Hale's face shuts down at the question, and Stiles has a moment to think _shit_ before the captain goes in for the kill. “What? You think you're good enough to fight the Alphas now, huh, Stilinski?”

The barb stings, but Stiles soldiers on. He's not a failure any more. “I think,” he says, slowly because he might not give a shit about Hale's authority but he does give a shit about his throat, which is kind of at risk here, “that we've learnt all we can for now. We're wasting time here.”

Hale huffs out a humourless laugh and shakes his head like he can't quite believe Stiles is a real thing. Stiles gets that. Sometimes he wonders about himself too. “You're not ready, Stilinski. None of you are.”

Stiles recognises the tone. It's the kind that warns to let go, to back off and leave well alone, but Stiles has never been good at that. “When are we ever gonna be ready for this?” he demands. “There's only so much we can learn running around in the freakin' woods!”

All of the alarm bells in his head are ringing now. Stop. He should stop, should definitely stop because aggravating Captain Hale is one sure-fire way to losing several important extremities.

For the first time, Hale's eyes flash blue, and fangs sprout from his mouth. Stiles doesn't think he'll ever get used to that, and he can barely hear over his own rabbit-fast heartbeat when Hale growls, “You are not ready.”

He wants to take a step back. Every instinct is screaming at him to flee, run run run because Hale is a predator and he's prey, not even very fast prey, but he doesn't. Feet rooted to the ground, he says, “We are.”

Claws dig deep into the wooden post that Hale leans against. It seems to take every scrap of control he has for him to speak next. “No.”

Frustrations bubbles up inside Stiles. “Why not? What more can we possibly do here, huh?”

Hale shoots forwards, seizes the front of Stiles' shirt. “You're not ready! None of you are ready, I'm not-”

He stops there, but it's too late to bite back the words. _I'm not ready._

Oh.

Of course.

They're so close now that Stiles can feel Hale's breath, hot and harsh against his face. He forces himself to meet his captain's gaze, and sure, there's anger there, but there's something else too.

Fear.

Stiles knows what happened to the Hale family. Everyone does. Everyone knows there are only the three of them now – Peter, who hands out conscriptions, who personally oversees the change from human to wolf; Laura, the leader, the alpha; and Derek.

Slowly, Hale's grip on him loosens. The claws retract, but there's no undoing the tears in Stiles' shirt. “For what it's worth,” Stiles tells him, “I think you're ready.” Then, feeling stupid – for what it's worth, as if his word would be worth anything – he turns tail and runs.

***

He watches Stilinski leave, and he thinks of the way his breath had ghosted across his face, the way his honey-brown eyes had widened, not in fear but surprise.

 _Shit_. If Laura could see him now, she'd laugh so hard she'd forget to breathe.

Or maybe not. She might hold him close the way she does sometimes late at night, when the memories keep them both awake and he can still feel the heat against his skin, still taste the acrid smoke in his lungs-

No.

He forces himself to calm down. He closes his eyes, breathes in and out until his fangs are gone and he's sure his eyes are human again.

The worst part is, he thinks Stilinski might be right.

Not about him – Derek knows he isn't ready to leave, might not ever be ready – but about the rest of them. His recruits. His pack, as he has come to think of them in the privacy of his own mind. There's little else he can teach them here, but he doesn't want to leave. Not yet. This place feels safe, their own little bubble of quiet where they can just-

It doesn't matter. It's all a lie – the illusion of safety, nothing more.

Stilinski might think it's time to leave, but Derek knows differently. He doesn't trust himself to lead. He doesn't trust himself not to fuck up. He doesn't trust himself to make the right call. He never does.

Laura trusted him with this, but she doesn't know. She doesn't know that there's reason not to trust him, doesn't know that what happened is all his fault. He has never been able to admit it – not to her, not to Laura, the only one left, not while they still clung to each other, fearful and angry. He'd tried, once, but the words stuck in his throat and left him choking as if he'd inhaled yet more smoke.

Laura trusts him. He's her second in command.

She's wrong.

And yet... He sighs as he thinks of her. Alone in the mountains, in command of a whole army but still alone without him. They had always been close, and closer still after- well, after. His chest aches to think of her. He misses her steady, reassuring presence, misses her fierce humour and sharp smiles.

She could be dead.

The thought strikes without warning and leaves him reeling. He digs into the wooden post he leans against and breathes. No. Laura wouldn't die. She has too much life in her. Death would be too afraid to take her.

He knows this as well as he knows the back of his hand, and yet something inside his chest is pulling him north, to his sister's side.

He stares up into the sky. Night has fallen since he stepped outside, and a crescent moon hangs clear and bright in the sky. There's only been one full moon since he saw his sister last, and it feels like a lifetime.

With a final sigh, he turns and enters his tent. He'll send word to his sister.

They'll leave in the morning.

***

The next morning, Stiles is sincerely regretting his decision to speak to Captain Hale.

It looked to have been a success, and all, but nothing was worth getting up at the crack of dawn for, least of all a trek such as this one.

Scott, of course, is having no trouble keeping pace. He could be walking along with Jackson up at the front of the group were it not for the fact that they're apparently arch-rivals or something. Stiles doesn't really know – the first month or so, he was distracted by his own inability to do anything, but now that he's not Scott has seen fit to catch him up on the whole thrilling story.

“And then he said he knew I was cheating, 'cause there was no way I could beat him in a fair fight,” Scott is saying as they walk, feet aching. Stiles feels the ache all the way up his legs, every step another jolt of pain. He misses Jeep, but it wouldn't have been safe to take the horses once they reached the mountain paths.

“I hear ya, buddy,” he says, feeling he should offer some support in the face of Scott's super-pout. “You could kick his ass any day.” It's probably not so smart to say that when Jackson and his super-hearing can hear their whole conversation, and Jackson could certainly kick Stiles' ass any day.

Scott grins, and Stiles feels a sudden burst of affection. In the short time they've known each other, Scott and Stiles have become closer than he ever thought possible – best friends, even brothers. In the same breath he feels a stab of guilt for the secret he's keeping, but he knows that if anybody found out about him he'd be sent home at best and killed at worst. He's come so far – there's no turning back now.

The march north, while boring and exhausting, gives Stiles time to think. Captain Hale had taken Stiles' advice. He'd listened to him. Stiles could hardly believe it when they awake to Hale's grumpy face – and Stiles amused himself with the image of Hale arguing with himself over leaving – telling them to pack up and move out.

Stiles' mouth feels dry, and not just from the walk. He looks forward to see the sharp set of Hale's shoulders at the front of the group, leading them north. Towards the Alphas. Towards danger.

He'd never really thought this far ahead, in all honesty, but now that Stiles thinks about it he can feel a bubble of panic in his chest. The Alphas.

Ah, shit. He's gonna get himself killed.

Scott lowers his voice as he speaks again, which means this is either an important, secret conversation or Scott has decided they should try and be spies again (turns out spying on Erica and Boyd only leads to severe mental scarring, and god, he's never forgetting what he saw that one time). “Why now, anyway?” Scott says. “Captain Hale's never said anything about leaving and now we're going after the Alphas, it's kinda weird. Don't you think?”

Stiles forces a grin onto his face and tries not to think of Scott lying bloodied and beaten with a pair of red eyes looming over him. “You're not scared, are ya Scotty?”

Scott shoves his shoulder, and it's as though he's knocked the weight from them. Stiles laughs easily this time. “Who knows how Hale thinks, man?” He sure as hell doesn't. “Just look at it like this: no more marathon sprints through the woods!”

The answering grin is enough for him. He'll be okay, as long as he has Scott by his side. He knows he's only human, weaker than the others, slower too, but right now he feels like he could take on the Alphas single-handedly.

***

The feeling lasts right up until they reach the mountains. The smoke rising from the village they're headed to is enough to make his heart sink like a stone.

It could be nothing. Maybe they're having a bonfire. It gets cold up in the mountains, after all. Fire is as good a way as any to keep warm. Stiles might be able to convince himself of that, if it wasn't for the way their captain's face had paled, the way his jaw had set and his eyes had blazed with cold fury. They move quickly, after that, and they don't stop.

Not until they reach the village.

Laura Hale and her troops are supposed to be here, Stiles knows. They're going to meet and make a stand against the Alphas.

There's no one here.

No one living, anyway.

The village is a burnt husk. Trembling, blackened frames of buildings struggle to stand. The stench of smoke fills the air, stinging their eyes, and the fire still blazes in places.

Captain Hale stands in the centre, eyes wide with undisguised horror, and slowly they begin to disperse, to search the village for signs of life. Stiles' heart is in his throat as he walks through the ashes, fine grey dust coating his boots. He finds his first corpse within minutes, the flesh burnt and raw, face scarred beyond recognition but twisted in unspeakable agony. Bile rises in his throat, and he fights not to throw up over the fallen soldier's corpse. He can't tear his eyes away, he thinks he's only a split-second away from a full blown panic attack when the sound of Captain Hale's howl fills the air.

Every hair stands on end at the sound. Agony, fury, misery, and Stiles knows, heart sinking ever-lower, what it means.

He follows the sound, and for once he hates that he's right.

There, in the middle of the still-burning village, is the body of Laura Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I UPDATED IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
> 
> it's gettin pretty serious now, kids  
> fasten your seatbelts and keep hands and feet inside the ride at all times
> 
> come find me on tumblr!! i'm megmaster it's a good time


End file.
